


More Last Than Star

by lineslines, Sar_Kalu



Series: A Being To Timelessness [1]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Angst fic, Crowley centric, Gen, I do not know how to tag this - Freeform, M/M, character exploration, two part series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-04
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2020-06-03 20:41:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,389
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19471792
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lineslines/pseuds/lineslines, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sar_Kalu/pseuds/Sar_Kalu
Summary: In a beginning, there was a Sword that was gifted to a Principality by God herself, and taught to protect the First Man and the First Woman in The Garden She had Created for their pleasure and safety. For six days and six nights the Principality stood guard over the East Gate and on the seventh day, when all of Gods creatures were at rest, there came Temptation that wound about the hearts of Men and led them astray; and the Principality, who remained as ever he had, loyal to his cause, did so disobey God herself and gifted that Sword to Man… [and] this disobedience, unlike others, was not punished...And Crowley is very intrigued by this.





	More Last Than Star

**Author's Note:**

> Hello Reader, 
> 
> Just quickly: this will be a two part fic. Part one, which hasn't been finished yet, will be written by [Line (this will take you to her tumblr FYI)](https://lineffability.tumblr.com/). Eventually. They're super busy, please don't hassle them for their bit. It'll happen. #ThatUniLyfe
> 
> For now, this is Part Two: Crowley. Please note, this is a NON LINEAR part one and two writing thing; it's mostly just an excuse for Line and I to jam together, writer style. ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯
> 
> My name is Xan and if you're interested in screaming at me, about Good Omens or in general tbh, you can come scream at me [on MY Tumblr here](https://sar-kalu.tumblr.com/). I'd be delighted to hear from you. 
> 
> You can comment on this fic below if you can be fucked to expend the effort; otherwise just enjoy the ride. I hope I did Crowley justice. 
> 
> Until next time, neighbour. :)

_In  _ **_a_ ** _ beginning,  _ \- and for the Demon once known as Crawly this was the  **only** beginning worth remembering - _ there a was Sword that was gifted to a Principality by God herself, and taught to protect the First Man and the First Woman in The Garden She had Created for their pleasure and safety. For six days and six nights the Principality stood guard over the East Gate and on the seventh day, when all of Gods creatures were at rest, there came Temptation that wound about the hearts of Men and led them astray; and the Principality, who remained as ever he had, loyal to his cause, did so disobey God herself and gifted that Sword to Man. For the Principality had been taught to protect the First Man and the First Woman and though he could not go with the humans when Adam and Eve were cast out of Eden; that did not mean that the Principality could not ensure their Protection in his absence…  _ this disobedience, unlike others, was not punished [1] .

Once upon a time, there once was a Beast that did hunt Man and all around were miles upon miles of sand and far above was the wide open sky so brilliantly blue [2] . This was how the World began for Humanity: cast from Eden and sent into the wilds, left to fend for themselves; and while this was not the first time this particularly story has played out, it is the most recent in all our history. Once long ago, there had been others, God’s firstborn children, given wings and beauty and powers unlike any other; and six hundred threescore and six did turn their faces from Her Ordain to love Her Creation Above Even She Herself and were, as humanity would one day be, cast out from Heaven. They Fell, down into the darkness that remained upon edges of the wilds of chaos, were storms and winds did strip them of their angelic grace and beauty; until all that was left was Corruption and Despair. Demons they are now, hungry and embittered, frozen and alone, they who had Fallen from grace in the eyes of God: and in humanity did they replay their own inevitable fall [3] ; and though this is not  _ their _ story, nor is this the story of Adam and Eve: for this was not  _ just _ Humanity’s Beginning. This would be The Beginning for two Beings, Best Friends, who would one day be as dear to each other as the invention of writing to a certain Angel and automobiles to a fork-tongued demon; although for vastly deeper reasons. 

One was of the Darkness Below and the other of Light High Above; and with the First Command, and the First Temptation, and the First Meeting Between the Two Adversary’s On Earth, there was a kismet, a friendship struck up - not of convenience but of trust evolved, of trust learned, of trust, betwixt Angel and Demon, earned. For this is the Beginning that does gleam like gemstones, shining with anticipation and joy, or perhaps they pierce like shards of glass, pricking thumbs with guilt and left over fear; or maybe none of that, because Crowley is a Demon, and what is guilt and fear and anticipation and joy to a Demon?… For six thousand years is a long span of time, even for a Demon, and Crowley remembers all of it, from Creation to Fall; from Eden to the Ark; from Golgotha to the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. From Beginning to End and: Beyond.

Those First Moment in the wake of The Earth’s creation had been hot. 

The Schism of Heaven: when Lucifer’s disobedience to God’s directive had been seen as betrayal, when Michael’s grief and rage had seen them fighting for their lives, and God, who in her ineffable wisdom had cast the Six Hundred into Hell for lack of anything else to do with them. Newly created, Hell was little more than a pool of sulphur and lava and stagnant things that the graceless once-angels were hurled headfirst into, screaming in pain and rage and fear, wings stripped bare for their million lightyear fall. Crowley well remembers the taint they all emerged with: no longer angelic, fallen from grace; the undone left staring up at the merciless ranks of the divine. 

Then there had been Eden: a garden ringed with towering tall walls to protect it from the ravaged world outside; and it’s interior lush and green and cool and kind to all creatures great and small. Heaven had shone down, benevolent towards the First Man and the First Woman, obedient to their Creators vision and word [4] . Four Principalities had stood over them, guarding the humans within; though none more fiercely or with greater love than the Principality of the Eastern Gate, for he considered Adam and Eve to not just be his God’s creations, but also his Friends [5] . 

It had been Lucifer again, who had grown jealous and angry of humanities bliss at the hands of those they had once called ‘brother’, and in their rage and fury had called their Dukes to their side, demanding vengeance upon Humanity, who had sparked the war that had led to their Fall and the Fall of all their Demons; and Heaven who had refused to see the Morningstar’s reason [6] . The Dukes of Hell, Beelzebub, Hastur, and Ligur had turned to their fellow Six Hundred, the masses of Fallen Angel’s who had grown cold and cruel and spiteful during their time in the pit; and it had been to Crowley, mischievous and canny, that they had turned to: a Demon as like and unlike any other. Crowley with his wings black as tar, his eyes slitted and gold like a snakes, and his Being as marked by his Fall as they all had been; each in their own way. Above them all, Satan still shone as bright as the Morning Star for which they had once been named: their hair once halo-brighter than the sun was now tainted and slicked thickly with scum and slime, their wings dripping grease and flecks of black oil that oozed from between their feathers; and despite their horrific visage, Satan was still beloved, still worshiped, even now. Hand chosen and prideful for the responsibility given to him by his King, Crowley had slithered into Eden, ordered cause trouble by the Great Prince of Darkness, their-self; and Crowley had done as he was bid, never dreaming that Humans, God’s beloved Creation, could ever fall from Grace as he himself had once done. 

Crowley remembers well how Eden had been humid. How he had pushed through the damp, dark soil, twisting his shape, until he had become more serpentine, more reflective of the nature that Hell had brought out in him; this change was not wrought for fear of the Woman that he would target and speak into Temptation, but for the Great Principalities at the Gates: all four Beings that were shining Beacons of Awesome [7] Power that blazed unchecked and unsullied, each purer than any light that radiated out of the sun high above his head that Crowley had, once-upon-a-time, helped the Lightbringer craft even before the Creation of this World. Eve had sat alone, sheltered beneath a tree and far from the ever-watchful gazes’ of the Gate-Keepers’, unconscious of her nakedness, her eyes soft and dull as an Angels’; and Crowley had slithered on his belly, wound about her trusting neck, her innocence remained unmindful of his venomous fangs that curved sharp and long from his upper jaw, even as he whispered softly in her ear. It had been there, in that moment, beneath that tree, that Crowley had brought The First Sin into the world by the way of a question:  **_why?_ **

Why is the grass green?

Why is the sky blue?

Why is it that Angels have wings and humans do not?

_ Why is it that tree is Forbidden, when all others are Safe and Good? _

Disobedience, Crowley knew, grew not only from the dark and hidden places of a Being’s mind, but from asking questions: and indeed, the apple of knowledge had never been about the  _ fruit _ , the theft from God Herself, but rather about the  _ Freedom of Choice Between Good and/or Evil _ , a freedom denied to Angels and Demons, who instead are placed in juxtaposition to Humanity’s potential, and treated as brackets to Humanity’s journey as God’s favoured children. 

That knowledge of Good and Evil and the ability to choose between the two was the First Sin; but that knowledge was brought to life by the asking of the First Question: why is something the way it is? Teach a person to wonder, and they will take the bite of that forbidden fruit of their own volition; the greatest flaw of humanity is that hunger for knowing more, it’s what drove them to unpick the rules of the universe and visit the moon. 

Back then, in The Garden, Crowley had watched with avid curiosity, he had seen the way Eve had reached to grasp the forbidden apple, seen the way her white teeth had sank deep into skin and flesh and torn a full, heavy mouthful away, and Crowley would never forget the sound of the rip, of the tear, of the chunk of blunt human teeth carving through pale white flesh; would never forget how Eve had glutted her body on the knowledge of God and the Divine. Oh how juice had run thick and viscous down her chin, her neck, and chest; and Crowley had watched as Eve wiped that thick, viscous juice from her mouth, her chin, her neck, and her chest; her skin turning red not from the heat of the Garden, but from her nakedness that she perceived for the first time, and she turned her face away in newborn shame. From his place beneath a low slung palm tree, Crowley wondered at what it was that Eve now knew; what it was like to know choice and creation as God Herself did; and Crowley, despite his job being completed, remained curled beneath an ever-green leaf of the huge palm where Eve had spent her day, and all the days previous; had watched as Adam was tempted by the gleam in his wife’s eyes; watched as Adam too partook in the eating of the apple, and Crowley himself was tempted in that moment, to take on human form, to walk up to Adam and Eve, to take that apple from their hands, and to sink his own sharp teeth into that white juicy flesh; but this knowledge was for humans alone, and Crowley did turn his face away, knowing better than to wish for greater things than what he already had. Crowley was but a minor Demon, a serpent in a hoard of larger, crueler beasts that gnashed their terrible teeth, and crashed their terrible jaws, and hungered for revenge upon the Heavens that had forsaken them. 

God’s rage was as incandescent in The Garden of Eden as it had been during the Schism Of Heaven [8] .

Despite Satan’s commendation for a job well done, Crowley has-always and would-always consider the sinking of Eden beneath the waves of sand, the banishment of Adam and Eve from the safety of the four walls, the destruction of so much life and beauty to be a bit of an overreaction; but he would never pretend to be surprised by the turn of events. Crowley has known God’s mercy before, after all. Falling a million lightyears per hour into a pool of boiling sulphur? Is not really something you forget - no matter how much you’d prefer to. 

After the Events of Eden and the First Sin had blown over and quiet once more lay over the Garden and clouds black and dangerous boiled on the horizon, Crowley emerged from his hiding place beneath a pandanas palm, slitted eyes reflecting the stunned bemusement that he felt after watching Humans cast out as the Fallen had been. A very small, unvoiced part of Crowley, which dared remember Life Before The Fall, felt a measure of pity and sympathy for humans; the loss of one’s home, after all, is always a terrible thing. 

It had been far up on that wall that had encircled Eden, that Crowley had seen the Principality of the East Gate, their visage troubled as they stared out after the humans that fled Eden’s surrounding area. Even as he slithered up the towering wall, Crowley feared he would not be welcome, for the Principality was a great deal stronger than he, a great deal larger, and built far more for fighting and smearing slithering little Demons across the stone walls of Eden’s vastness than Crowley could ever hope to be; and as he came to a stop by their side, Crowley got a feeling for how Immense the Principality was, for their Being was barely contained by the human flesh that God have covered them in. Their wings alone were broad and feathered a glowing white and hung heavy from their shoulders, their face however, gave lie to their Ethereal presence: blue eyes akin to a summers’ sky, a riotous halo of white blonde curls, and a mouth that Crowley only be described as cherubic. Their expression was anything by determined and Crowley rather considered them to appear worried and concerned; Crowley had never heard such things within Angels before, would likely never hear of it after.

And Crowley, who had manifested himself a human skin akin to the Angels and stared out over the Lands Beyond Eden together, heaved a deep, heavy sigh; a unifying moment between them, and though Crowley at the time had not known that this would not be the last, Crowley’s present was filled with little moments like these, though this, being the first, remained one of the most powerful [9] . The Angel, Aziraphale, would one day become a constant in Crowley’s life; his only constant in the ever forward-momentum that was human history.

Time was a fleeting, ephemeral thing, not really given to being anything more than a constant, steady stream from Beginning to End and was so enormously vast that even Immortal Beings like Aziraphale and Crowley boggled at the immensity of it all. Humanity though, tended to carve time up into smaller, easier to swallow chunks and placed a Great Deal of Importance on these chunks. Giving the names, finding their place within the whole uncaring cosmos through such attempts at understanding the Meaning [10] . For much of Humanity, though not all, time was split into Before Christ and After Christ, named after God’s Son on Earth[11] ; and Crowley, in his mimicry of humanity within whose seething masses he spent much of his time, would one day consider time to be split into Before Adam and After Adam [12] ; but time is also peppered with little moments that stand out, bright and curious, against the usual backdrop of how-things-are, and Aziraphale, who was utterly unlike any Angel that Crowley had met, before or since his Fall, was once such moment. Aziraphale, who remained a Principality, a Being of such Power and Awesomeness that the feathers of his wings that were edged like a thousand tiny swords, for Principality’s were first and foremost, soldiers and fighters above all else. Which made if even more ridiculous that it had been Aziraphale, who was given the sword that had been meant for the protection of humanity: for Aziraphale was hardly what Crowley would  _ ever _ call soldier or fighter not that Crowley would  _ ever _ go about underestimating Aziraphale’s capability as a warrior. Crowley just had trouble sometimes, particularly when the Angel was waxing poetic about food and book, picturing this round faced, blue eyed, curly haired Angel as anything other than… well, a not a soldier. Crowley, in the midst of making small-talk and thinking maybe that Tempting an Angel to Fall From Grace might be a nice feather in his cap (as it were), had been stunned when the Principality had quite unexpectedly flustered his way through explaining how he’d come to lose his thrice-damned flaming sword; and Crowley, who had watched Humanity’s Fall with Sympathy, if not Empathy, had ached that no Angel had done the same for the Six Hundred during or  _ after _ the Schism, and Crowley, who watched as the Angel justified his actions, felt that perhaps this is what Angel’s were meant to be, protectors and guides, above all else. Aziraphale had been motivated by something that Crowley had never once experienced in his life:

_ Mercy _ .

The one thing never granted to the Six Hundred, who had followed Lucifer and their refusal to bow to Humanity above even God Herself, had been Mercy. Angel’s, Crowley knew, were not merciful by nature or nurture and yet here was this Being who had neither Fallen nor Sauntered Vaguely Downwards, that had gifted Humanity Protection and so had obeyed their Prime Objective, even in the face of Divine Wrath. The Six Hundred had been cast out of Heaven for less.  _ Humans _ had been cast out for less. And yet, here remained this ridiculous Angel with his eyes and his stammering and his curly white hair, who had done what no Angel before or since had ever done: chosen Humanity, freely and of his own volition and in doing so, had not Fallen, even though God must surely be angry with his disobedience. 

And Crowley, one of the Six Hundred who had refused Humanity over a God who had then thrown him out of Heaven, had turned to look out over the vast, rolling sand dunes, and wondered if Humanity was worth it after all. If maybe this was the Beginning of Humanities Test; to see if Humanity was as to the Divine as Demon’s were to Angels: same but different, in their own way, all because of an apple.

And then Mesopotamia had happened.

And then Sodom and Gomorrah.

And then Golgotha.

And Crowley-who-had-once-been-known-as-Crawly had watched as the Angel’s of Heaven had killed and killed and killed and allowed humans to kill and kill and kill until Crowley was sick to the stomach with the pointlessness of it all. Adam and Eve had brought the First Sin into this world and Jesus had absolved Humanity of that Sin and now, what was left? Here he’s remained, a being to timelessness as it’s to time; companionship found only in the form of his Adversary, an Angel, who had stood idly by and allowed for the destruction, and the death, and the horror of it all to happen; even as he, the Demon, had taken credit for thousands of other atrocities and still, Crowley wonders at the point of it all. 

Once upon a time, Crowley had briefly thought it the greatest feather in his cap to Tempt an Angel into Falling, a revenge upon the Heavenly forces, a giant fuck-you to God and her ineffable plan. Now he knows that there is no tempting this Angel, for they and he are two sides of the same coin. Good and Evil; Chaos and Order; Stasis and Change. Once upon a time, Crowley had watched Eve eat an apple and hungered for that which that she already knew,  _ and at the end of it all _ , Crowley privately thinks to himself sometimes, having never dared speak it aloud,  _ that Humanity had the Right and the Worst of it All _ . The Knowledge of Right and Wrong that came with the Apple that Humanity had been Tempted into taking by the Serpent of Eden, had Crowley himself some six thousand years of watching, yearning, aching, fearing, hating and… above all, loving (not just this moment but all the others that he’d gathered tight and close to his chest,) to learn. Crowley had come so far to reach Tadfield and everything that lay beyond, and Crowley  _ knew _ ,  _ knew _ like only one who has seen more than he should, experienced more than any one Being could dream, that Right and Wrong were everyday simple things more complex than any human could dream of: a thousand different choices, a thousand different dreams all made within seconds; some easier than others, some heartbreakingly difficult with ramifications felt for eons ever-after. And Humanity, who had taken that knowledge of the Apple from God; humanity, who had taken it and never dared looked back for fear of what lay behind them, who had never truly paid the price for that thieving as the Demons had: for what was Eden to the entirety of the Earth that God had given them? What truly had Humanity known from that Apple that Angels and Demons couldn’t find if they went looking [13] . There the Angels of Heaven remained as ever they had, stationary and watchful over beings they could never understand, unknowing of the price of that choice that the Demon’s had paid for their disobedience but still could not they themselves understand; and all the while Crowley, and later Aziraphale, had learnt and lost and grown for everything they’d experienced, and in doing so, had earned that which Humanity had taken.

Back then, though, before everything else that was yet to come, Crowley had been thinking that it would be so, so easy to thwart this Angel. To lead him astray… and yet… it hadn’t been. In Mesopotamia, as in Golgotha, (even before the Arrangement they would later craft through friendship that Crowley might admit started in Rome and with the oysters and Aziraphale’s first clumsy temptation bolstered by a soft smile that Crowley would never admit to being soft for), Crowley had watched the Angel with eyes that wondered how something so Bright and Beautiful could ever survive on Earth as he had done. It was dark here; dirty, messy, covered in blood, sweat, and bones of those who had been lost and those who sought a better life. After some six thousand years amongst them, Crowley knew that Humanity’s greatest triumph was their constancy in Hope, far more than Good and Evil and their potential therein; but Aziraphale, for all his brightness, his beauty, his wide eyed optimism, still did not belong. Humanity’s tenacity that came alongside their hope and the belief that things might just work out for the better mightsuit Aziraphale, with his steadfast belief in God and her Ineffable Plan, but that did mean that Aziraphale suited Earth. Aziraphale who bumbled his way from century to century, forever believing the best in the humans around him, taking great delight in the little details: the books, the food, the companionship of six thousand years and the familiarity that grew alongside. Aziraphale, to Crowley’s mind, remained out of duty, out of a love he’d once born for the mother of this human race, out of the sanctity of his oath to God and the Sword she had given him; and yet, Crowley, who was a simple creature at heart, hoped that Aziraphale stayed for something more.

That after all the clandestine little meetings they’d had; the friendship forged over six millennia that bridged the lightyears of space betwixt Heaven and Hell: a friendship based on trust learned through adversity, on kindness wrought through knowledge that they were the only two of their kind (no matter how separate their ‘sides’ were) on this Earth that their Creator had crafted. That, in spite of the fact that all that history had boiled down to a single moment with Adam and the Humanity he embodied like Eve once had and the ruin Crowley had personally brought down upon her, the ruin played out again as Satan crawled from the pit, raging at the rebelliousness of his only son; that maybe Aziraphale knew there was more here-and-now than could be found in Heaven and Hell. Sometimes, if he looks long and hard enough, Crowley swears he can see every single human in history, stretched out in a long line of bodies that had culminated into that Event in Adam’s eyes: a boy against all the foulness of the world, a boy against all of Hell and Heaven, a boy, lost in the storm of his own power, staring down the Four Horsemen themselves and still finding Hope and Love in it all; and the Angel and the Demon that had taken a chance and stood fast at his side. 

Once upon a time, Crowley can remember meeting Aziraphale in Mesopotamia where Noah and his family had built an ark and filed the animals, great and small, two by two into its great hold and Aziraphale had told him of the Flood and the Rainbow and Crowley had watched the innocent children crying as their dark eyed parents grimly watched on. 

“Not the children though, surely?” Crowley had asked back then, his eyes flashing gold in the noon day sun, and Aziraphale his bit his lip, nodded his head, and made a shocked, pitchy hum of agreement that said louder than words that he thought this was a terrible state of affairs; and Crowley, who’d never been very good as a Demon, mostly because he despised senseless acts of violence like Heaven and Hell both seemed to partake in, had turned his face away and left the Angel to his own devices. Crowley, who had Fallen for asking questions, who had damned himself for not following direct orders, had watched as the lands filled with water and cursed the Almighty and her Ineffability. 

Crowley had grown to love humans; admired them and their clever little answers to life’s dangers. Crowley couldn’t abide the senselessness of the Divine; some days, Crowley likes to pretend that, and not selfishness, had been why he’d fallen. 

Adam’s friends had been like the children of Mesopotamia, he thought: brave in the face of their certain destruction, but frightened all the same, even as those older and wiser and more fit to fight had grimly watched the proceedings with dark and silent eyes. Hope, Crowley often thought, was tied up in the promise of tomorrow. The promise of better, found best in the innocence and naivety of children’s firm belief that everything would be okay, if they only hoped more, if they trusted in the adults around them, if they believed in themselves and their friends. There is strength in innocence; for innocence does not know defeat, does not know pain or sorrow or fear. Innocence is its own armour: and Adam and Pepper and Wenselydale and Brian were all strong for their beliefs and hopes. Crowley, his heart aching, had watched:

Had watched as Pepper had declared her belief in Peace and so defeated War.

Had watched as Brian had declared his belief in a good, clean world and so defeated Pollution.

Had watched as Wensleydale stood nervous yet determined in his belief in a good healthy lunch and so defeated Famine.

Had watched as Adam; brave golden Adam had taken heart and hope from the firm belief of his friends and sent Death away - for now. 

Crowley had watched, fearful, as the Divine had proudly descended: the Archangel Gabriel on wings of silver and his eyes like the dawn sky; as the Fallen had ascended in deathful flesh: Beelzebub on wings of black like tar and her eyes like putrefaction; and both Heaven and Hell had come before the Antichrist and demanded that he do his duty. And Crowley, who remembered Falling a thousand lightyears into a pool of acid yellow sulphur had stood behind the boy and watched in stunned amazement as Adam drew himself up, never knowing how much like his Satanic Father he appeared in that moment, eyes shining bright and pure with the force of a thousand suns, and told them: “ **_no_ ** ”.

It had been Aziraphale’s clever little question [14] about plans and ineffability and The Great Plan that had caused the ceasefire; just as it had been Crowley’s deduction that had Heaven and Hell retreating, regrouping, calling upon a higher power to resolve everything… and Crowley, who quite enjoyed Earth and all her accoutrements if not necessarily all of humanity itself, had clung to Adam’s hand, small, sweaty, and soft within his own, and prayed to anything and anyone that might be listening that this went well; because six thousand years had taught Crowley to hope, even in the face of all Adversity and Evil, that everything might turn out well: and Crowley had weathered the Apocalypse the only way that Heaven, Hell, and then Humanity had taught him too: with optimism, tenacity, and above all  _ hope _ .

Once upon a time, before the Schism of Heaven and Hell, Crowley had been a relatively lowly Seraph working under the Lightbringer to help craft the hundreds of thousands of stars, planets, nebular, and glorious wonders deep within the depths of space. Lucifer had been the best and brightest of all the angels, their hair had been the colour of the light that radiated off the cornfields at the height of summer beneath cloudless blue skies, their eyes had gleamed deep and fathomless like the ocean depths, and their wings had appeared as spun gold; not even Michael, with her silver patterned skin and shining eyes, had been as beautiful. But beauty does not survive in the pit and evil wreaks havoc upon a Being and the creature that climbs from the pit is twisted and dark and snarling, raging, frothing at the mouth and something deep, dark, and small within Crowley cries out in pain at the sight of his King. This was not the Lucifer that Crowley knew: for that which Lucifer had been, had long since eroded away. A thousand generations of human imaginations had twisted the Morningstar inside out until he was red skinned, black eyed, with wings like those of a bat and horns that spiralled from his forehead as if to crown him the Devil; the Adversary; Satan.

Aziraphale once told Crowley that Evil was its own undoing: that Evil could not exist within the bounds of its own reality without unravelling from the force of its own chaos and destruction; and Crowley wept internally for the loss of the Lightbringer, unconsciously grieving for what was, for what had been; the past unravelling, twisted and corrupted for humanities long reign on Earth. This was not his King, who had ordered him to go topside and cause some trouble six thousand years ago; this was but a caricature, a demon in every sense of the word, and nothing else remained. One night, some months after the Apocalypse-that-wasn't, Crowley would curl up on his throne, stare at the ceiling, and drink himself blind until he could no longer hear that harsh grating voice of Satan in his minds-ear anymore. One day, Adam would ask questions of Crowley about his immortal father, when the years had removed the sting of That Event and doubt had crept in, and while Aziraphale had not allowed Crowley to answer, his flustered, fluttering words overriding the silence that Crowley was unable to fill: Crowley would cry out in his mind about the Angel that he had loved, the salvation he felt he’d found in the dark absence of the caring God he’d heard about but never found, the orders, the Apple, the fallout; how he’d ended up here, in this house, in a small English village and not within the dark, dank, depths of Hell’s pits that stank of sulphur and worse. 

Crowley would get drunk after that too.

The Time spent before Aziraphale had revolved around Lucifer and the guys, as Crowley could so humorously quip now; but Crowley didn’t enjoy thinking of that time, didn’t enjoy the lessons learnt from youthful indiscretions, didn’t want to acknowledge that he was the kind of person unable to find strength or purpose outside another in his life. Aziraphale remained steadfast and true now as he had six thousand years ago, not once had he seemed to waver; whereas Crowley felt like he reeled from place to place, a demonic ping pong ball freefalling through space, that he was still there, six thousand years ago, Falling, screaming, pleading for forgiveness only for white hot sulphur to close over his head, to suck him under, to melt the flesh from his bones, the feathers from his wings, to reveal the horror that God has seen deep within him. A character defect found stamped root-deep and yellow with sickness - found easiest within the iris’ of his hellish eyes, the window to his demonic soul.

Time spent after Eden had revolved, anchored to the only thing familiar in an ever changing land: Aziraphale - would always revolve around Aziraphale. The Angel who had been Crowley’s constant for six thousand years; but unlike Crowley’s brief lit obsession with the Morningstar and their followers, his and Aziraphale’s relationship had been built on solid foundations of trust,of empathy, of knowledge of each other - their failings and strengths, of loyalty earned through hardship. The only time Crowley felt on solid ground was those moments when Aziraphale stood beside him, never touching, but always there [15] . Aziraphale was his best friend, his  _ Best Friend _ , and Crowley refused to jeopardise that, refused to have his Angel look at him like he had that one time they ran into each other during King Arthur’s reign, as he had in Saint James’ Park when Crowley had asked for his ‘insurance’, as Aziraphale had during the 1960’s when he’d handed over the little tartan flask of holy water, disappointment and disapproval radiating from every pore. 

Adam hadn’t looked at Crowley like he was a disappointment, but he hadn’t looked on him with anything but confusion and fear, the young Antichrist reeling from the influx of power he’d received since his eleventh birthday and the knowledge of the task that was expected of him. Crowley had taken Adam’s hand, hoping to soothe his hurt and fear with the simple contact, had refused to look at Aziraphale as he’d encouraged the boy to stand up to his Satanic Father and had silently rejoiced (even as he grieved) as Lucifer was wrought into a different, more human shape. It feels like blasphemy; more than asking questions of God and Her Ineffable Plan ever had. Some days, Crowley still felt like he was Falling; burning up in the Earth’s atmosphere, his flesh boiling, and the taint of his inherent demonicness asserting itself over his more  _ angelic _ nature - even as the feeling of scales burning up and down his spine that traced the path along his human bones. Crowley doesn’t think he’ll ever not feel this way; and some part of Crowley, the part that had willingly been seduced by Lucifer’s power, his grandeur, his daring to ask the Really Big and Important Questions, screamed out in horror as the King of Hell was warped, twisted, and melted down into the ordinary, bland, and all-together normal figure of Adam’s human Father. There’s a disconnect there: the human underlaid by the demonic, and Crowley fancies, whenever he meets Mister Young’s gaze, that he can see Lucifer’s despair, howling behind the quiet façade of kind brown eyes.

Beside him, Aziraphale had shuddered delicately, apparently as disturbed by Adam’s sheer power as Crowley was; though undoubtedly for different reasons. 

Mister Young was furious, confused, and human as he rounded on Adam and his friends, hauling the four children from the Military base, scolding them all roundly even as he demands answers as to “ _ what the bloody hell were you even doing in there, Adam? _ ” Crowley had watched silently as the Witchfinder and the Witch leave hand in hand, smiling nervously at both he and the Angel, as though it is chance alone that prevents the Demon before them from turning them inside out; and Crowley is soon left with only Aziraphale for company, the bently a burning wreck beyond the gate that no miracle could ever fix.

Once upon a time, Crowley might have complained at the thought of taking a bus to London, would have thought himself above such meandering transport that catered to the human and the powerless; but tonight, with his bones aching and his wings feeling as stripped as they had been after his Fall, Crowley takes soft delight in resting his weary head against the window and watches the white lines go rushing past. Even for an immortal being, the last six days have felt more packed and fraught than the last six thousand years [16] . Crowley sank back in his seat, felt the long line of heat of Aziraphale beside him, and blinked burning eyes. The city arrives, black against a pale grey sky, and Crowley doesn’t check to see if the Angel follows him from the bus and up through the winding staircase of his apartment block. That Aziraphale is there, in spite of everything that had happened between them, all the hurtful things Crowley had said, the discorporation Aziraphale had experienced when Crowley  _ should have been there to protect him against the idiot human _ , and everything that followed with Heaven, Hell, and Satan against the Antichrist, is heartwarming in a way. It feels like a new beginning. 

The sight of Aziraphale in his kitchen had Crowley’s breath catching in his chest. The Angel has never looked so tired, so beaten down, and yet, despite that, Aziraphale had also never looked as triumphant. Crowley let tired eyes travel along the rounded limbs, the trouser hems that were discoloured from dirt and dust, the jacket that showed strain and hard wear, and Aziraphale’s hair that seemed curlier than usual. There’s an ache in the back of Crowley’s throat, in the hollow of his chest where his heart ought to be, and in the pit of his belly; an ache that spreads to his eyes that burn with sympathy and Crowley blinks twice, long and hard, reigning himself in. Selfish as it is… Crowley wishes Aziraphale would stay, here, in this flat, in this building, with him forever until the world is eaten up by the expanding sun. Until time ends. Until their immortality runs out and Time begins anew. 

Crowley knows that Aziraphale won’t though; he pretends this doesn’t bruise him as much as it does.

Silently, Aziraphale wanders the dark rooms, taking note of everything and Crowley can’t remember if this is the first time the Angel’s been invited into his home; not that it’s much of a space for anything but sleeping and collecting his plants. Plants that make Aziraphale hum in delight, praising their greenery, their lushness, soothing the spots and burns that stress gives them [17] . Aziraphale watches Crowley clean up the sludge and slime that had once been a demon, and Crowley oscillates around the Angel as he always has: pulled forwards by the gravity that swallows in Aziraphale’s wake, the Angel the unintentional centre of his universe. Sometimes, if he dares to look hard enough, Crowley can see the way Aziraphale is folded into his human-body, can see the cream-white feathers that edge beneath the skin of his back, can notice the way human-dull blue eyes turn brilliant like the noon-day sky at the height of summer, and something terrible aches where his heart (that Crowley tells himself he no longer has) rests in his chest. 

Sickness pervades him, Crowley thinks at times: citrus yellow like fading bruises and the iris’ of his eyes that stain his otherwise too-human appearance with the stamp of demon-nature that Crowley sometimes forgets he is: after all, Crowley has spent thousand years among humans, which leaves a far larger mark than the bare collection of millennia that had been spent in Heaven, let alone the centuries spent in Hell after his Fall among the Six Hundred…

Like dye leaching into white cloth, blue bleeds the night sky to the colour of slate as the sun rises high behind thick, wooly clouds.  _ Do lovers suffer? all divinities descending,  _ _ for long their notorious feelings have not been immortal enough _ , Crowley dared to mouth to himself, his soundless words fogging the window pane; committing the sin of mixing words and sounds together from their original shape into something new and longing. Behind him Aziraphale stands, shoulders relaxed and in the window pane, Crowley can see the shine of blue eyes reflected back at him, overlapping his own until he is not just he, but Aziraphale too; and the Angel’s cry of understanding sends Crowley’s heart tumbling down stairs, sudden shock giving it wings. 

“ _ When alle is fayed and all is done, ye must choofe your faces wisely, for soon enouff ye will be playing with fyre _ .” Aziraphale pronounces Agnes’ last prophecy as though he finally understands the ramblings of a half-mad witch who, in the hour of her death, did explode an entire village.

Crowley turns from the window to the Angel only to be turned back around, Aziraphale all but pressed against his back and Crowley’s heart stutters and stumbles in his chest, the ache he curtains off as best he can within his own mind coming back with all the force of a nuclear warhead. Is this the closest they’ve ever been? Crowley cannot remember, but the heat that radiates from Aziraphale is drugging and soporific; and Crowley wants nothing more than to turn and bury himself into Aziraphale. To coil about the Angel’s heart and exist within the breaths the Angel takes. His hunger is vast and violent and Crowley fears this part of him, worried that one day it will explode from him in a shower of viscera and visceral savagery.

Aziraphale is speaking, his words tripping and tumbling from his mouth in excitement, soft blue eyes shining brighter than the sky beyond the glass of the window their reflections are overlapping in. For a moment, Crowley could pretend that they are one, not two; that this was but a normal Saturday and they held mugs of cocoa in their hands, not the life and death decisions of a centuries old prophecy. The exchange, when they do it, is akin to stepping through an open doorway. Crowley knows Aziraphale; has watched him desperately and avidly for  _ six thousand years _ , has studied him: knows that the Angel would walk away from the Demon and return to his bookshop. Crowley pauses just long enough now to watch Aziraphale lounge within Crowley’s own skin, angelic kindness easing out centuries learned suspicion and heartache; wonders if Aziraphale feels the ache of the Fall between the stretch of skin that travels from wing to wing, if Aziraphale feels the itch of the scales that slither down his spine, if Aziraphale feels as different in Crowley’s body, as Crowley feels in Aziraphales. If Crowley didn’t value his relationship with the Angel, he might have been tempted to divest the other being of his clothing, to take his fill of the forbidden fruit that he now wore as a second skin; but the forbidden fruit had only ever been for humanity, and Crowley didn’t much like apples anyway.

As he left Aziraphale alone in his Mayfair flat, Crowley pauses just long enough to look up at his apartment building and fancies that he can see Aziraphale far above him, looking down, a metaphor for their whole existence, if Crowley believed in such things. The bookshop remains where it always has stood. Crowley feels something ease in his chest, loosen in his shoulders, and a smile tilts his mouth.  _ Only their smallest joy’s a universe emerging from a wish _ , he quotes to himself internally, knowing just how joyous Aziraphale will be to have a home once more. Freed from the company of a Demon, no matter how fond of Crowley he might be; and Crowley pretends, as he circles the inside of the bookshop with eyes the catalogue every change and every similarity, that this does not hurt as much as it feels. Crowley would never dare admit the emotion Azirapale stirred within him, had stirred within him since their first meeting. Crowley reached up and rubbed at his sternum that lay beneath the buttons of his expensive shirt, and wondered at the sense of it all.

It was days after that early morning overlap, that they find themselves in Saint James’ Park, on their favourite bench and Aziraphale was expounding on Agnes Nutter, who he’d proclaimed as their saviour even as he waved a small scrap of white in front of Crowley’s nose: thereupon lay tangled knowledge arrayed in close type on a small card marked by ink and graphite, generations of Device assumptions and guesses crowding the spaces around such a small prophecy. Beside him, the Angel had shines pure like fresh fallen snow under golden winter sunlight, the endless blue sky caught within his iris’ that stare at Crowley and gleam with delight for resolving all their ills and woes. It was as over as it ever likely would be for them. Consequences allayed for now with a little sleight of hand; hands that had gripped and exchanged skins as easy as breathing. Crowley pretends his skin doesn’t still burn for that touch, twice overlaid, and aching to reach out and grasp soft, manicured hands once again. As if such desires were foolish and selfish. As if Aziraphale didn’t deserve better than he: a Demon, Fallen and Graceless. Helpless in the face of such shining joy, Crowley had tempted Aziraphale to lunch, flashing bright tooth filled grins and lifting dark glasses up just enough to allow the inhuman-gleam of yellow eyes wink from beneath black rims at the Angel, who’s answering smile had been nothing short of miraculous. It was times like this that Crowley felt less like he was falling and more like he was soaring; his heart as winged as his shoulder blades. Strong beats carrying him upwards to meet the Angel halfway; that ache in his chest lightening to a bearable weight, - it’s less like choking and more like Crowley is breathless in rapture and awe for the comfort of sky blue eyes. 

Once upon a time, Crowley had been sent into the desert to speak with a carpenter; the supposed son of God and Crowley had met brown eyes with slitted yellow and tempted the boy to sin. Had offerred the young man everything, from riches, to sex, to power, to lands beyond all that he knew; Crowley had offered the young man the world and had watched, curious and amazed, as the young man had turned it all down. It had been early then, the world barely four thousand years old and Crowley hadn’t learnt the comfort of the Angels companionship. Jesus of Nazareth had stood in a rough robe of light brown and smiled at all Crowley’s little tricks and temptations, had laughed at his jokes, had shared Crowley’s sorrow and rage when the Demon had turned to emotional responses. Crowley had spent a month and ten days with Jesus; had walked away at the end of it all with nothing but respect earned for a young man, who saw all the Good and the Evil in the world and fought on despite it all. In later years, when Crowley grew to know Aziraphale better, he would come to realise that the Angel was much of the same sort of being as Jesus had been. Was cut from the same compassionate, wrathful, determined to see the best in the world, cloth as the young Saviour had been. Four thousand years and Crowley had never known hope as a human had; now, two thousand years later, Crowley walked as Jesus had, towards another’s certain destruction and held his head high: for Aziraphale.

Walking into Heaven once more, as an Angel once again, Crowley aches like never before. It is here, Crowley admits, that Aziraphale most suits. Oh, sure the bookshop would miss him and Crowley even more so; but this, this place that gleams warm and light and pristine in all ways that humanity would never be able to dream of. This is where Aziraphale best belongs. Unsullied by the pain and the horror that humanity and demons cause. Untouched by stain and learned disdain. Crowley doesn’t deserve Aziraphale; but he cannot lie so well as to pretend that he doesn’t need him. Before Adam, Crowley would never had dreamed that he would be walking these hallowed halls again and he knows that if God cared at all, he and Aziraphale would be found out by their respective Head Offices; but as he walks out once more, not hours later, brazen as when he’d walked in: Crowley isn’t quite able to chalk it up to ineffability as Aziraphale would; Crowley had long since concluded that either God didn’t care about Her Creation anymore; or, more likely, She found all this terribly amusing. A great jest, a jape at all creations expense. Once Crowley had believed; but in the here and now, in the space Crowley had carved for himself after his Fall, in the wake of Jesus’ kind brown eyes and Adam’s firm refutation of predestiny set out for him by Heaven  _ and _ Hell, Crowley can’t find the heart to believe in God and Her Ineffable Plan anymore.

It is in walking out, after the fire and fight, that Crowley resolves to never allow Aziraphale to return. There is something terrible in knowing that others do not hold him in as high regard as Crowley believes the Angel to deserve. The Angel who did not ask questions, but did act as he felt he ought. The Angel who did teach humanity of kindness, of fierceness, of all the little things worth fighting for. Crowley, who values more than his own life dinners at the Ritz and nights spent on Aziraphale’s sofa in the back of a tiny bookshop in Soho, did learn that hatred on behalf of another was far crueler and hotter than any hatred felt for oneself. Gabriel’s words would forever haunt him and Crowley would stare longer and harder at Aziraphale when they reunited, re-memorising the lines on his face and the curve of his smile and that particular shade of blue that was all Aziraphales own. Aziraphale doesn’t ask what’s wrong, perhaps knowing better than to voice such concern; Crowley’s never known how to receive it anyway.

In the beginning and the end of everything, Aziraphale was there. 

That afternoon found Aziraphale on their favourite bench in Saint James’ Park, sitting almost primly, yellow eyes that suited him ill flickering rapidly behind borrowed black sunglasses; not quite Crowley, but enough that none around him suspected a thing. After they had switched back, after Aziraphale had expounded on all his little mischievous quips and witticisms in his roleplay as Crowley; a Crowley who was brave, a Crowley who was funny and clever and demonic in his own right without being a complete bastard - and Crowley wonders if this is what flattery feels like, the temptation borne from knowing how another sees you. And Crowley had leant back in his seat, felt the sun warming him through his pitch black clothes and a smile turn the edges of his lips soft,  _ we did indeed triumph _ he thinks to himself, of survival earnt, of relaxation and damnation and salvation; and tilting his head to the side, Crowley had watched Aziraphale’s story morph from Hell to Heaven and then to where their hearts truly lay: Earth. 

Beneath that cream wool jacket lay a soft warrior's heart that dared beat strongly in the name of compassion and kindness, and Crowley felt his heart grow wings once more, lightening a burden he’d carried since the seventh day after Earth’s Creation, when the first rainfall had occurred and soaked them both straight through. How Crowley had sheltered beneath an Angels wing and Aziraphale hadn’t even thought twice before offering that shelter. Still smiling softly, Crowley had tilted his head back and stared up into a gloriously blue sky, the sun shining gold overhead, and considered, not for the first time, that he rather loved this world, rather loved humanity - but he rather liked Aziraphale more. But then, Crowley had always made for a terrible Demon in the long run; and he wondered if this, this unhurried delightful conversation that drags on and carries them to dinner and then to the bookshop in Soho for wine and company in the backroom filled to the eaves with books and boxes, if this moment drawn out overlong and calmly comforting, is what freedom feels like.

Saint James’ park remained the same. 

The Ritz as well.

Adam’s reset had found the Angel and the Demon on a bench beneath a tree, quite far from their usual spot. Crowley slouched deep into his seat practically melting into the wood, rather akin to a snake looped endlessly over a large hot rock in the sunshine boneless in its pleasure, beside him Aziraphale sat painfully upright, shoulders perfectly aligned with his hips in a way that wasn’t quite human in his rigidity. Crowley’s head tilted backwards exposing the long pale line of his throat to the late summer sun, comfort seeping from his every pore as he relaxed alongside Azirapale in a world that wasn’t nearly as destroyed as he’d thought it might be some eleven years ago. Beside him, Aziraphale hummed lightly to the tune of Strauss, though Crowley was certain that there’d been some F. Mercury influence there as the song was a bit more be-boppy than Aziraphale usually preferred. 

“It’s a beautiful day,” Crowley commented lazily, a faint smirk playing around the edges of his mouth, yellow eyes gleaming savage and soft behind the lenses of his sunglasses.

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed, turning to Crowley with a raised eyebrow and a smile that turns gently soft at the corners, “what do you say to a spot of lunch?”

Crowley hummed long and low, the sound reverberating through his chest as his influence reached out towards the Ritz and downgraded a Very Important Politicians lunch with his mistress from exclusive to just luxurious. “Always yes,” Crowley finally replied as he stood upright and flashed a feral smile at  _ his _ Angel. “Rather miraculously, a table at the Ritz has just opened up as well,” and Crowley waited patiently as Aziraphale got to his feet and brushed himself down fastidiously.

“How fortunate for us,” Aziraphale remarked, delighted with affected surprise; spoilt by a Demon, who loved him even though Demon’s weren’t meant to love at all.

Once upon a time, a human wrote in the unceasing arrogance of humanity that knew very little of anything at all, that it was far better to Reign in Hell than to Serve in Heaven; and Crowley, who has experienced both far more intimately than a Human could ever dream or an Angel could ever know, thinks that the human was so very far wrong, because who would Reign or Serve when you could take comfort in these beautiful blue eyes: Crowley had Fallen more than once in his long, long life - what was one more time, for a heavenly soft smile?

* * *

* * *

Footnotes:  
  


1 On his better days, Crowley pretends that his not bitterly jealous of this fact.[return to text]

  
2 the blue of the sky is not and will never be the most brilliant blue that Crowley’s eyes have ever seen; that blue is captured within eyes so bright they shine, particularly when accompanied by a soft, shy smile that sends those eyes downcast in refusal to admit that Crowley’s affected him once again[return to text]

3 though this remained the Morningstar’s greatest triumph, and indeed was the moment when Pride at one’s own achievements was invented; and this moment, for Eve did sink her teeth into the Apple as Lucifer had once dared question their Creator, was the Archangel Michael’s most silent and pervasive reason for humanities worthlessness as favoured children in the eyes of God: and lo, this then was also when the Pride in one’s personal self was invented - the Church would eventually call this version of Pride a Sin that only the Devil practiced, but human’s get a lot of things wrong about Angels and Demons; particularly in relation to their notions of Good and Evil[return to text]

  
4 for none would tempt to Fall, vivid remained the memory of the Morningstar’s mournful scream; not even Crowley’s Fall hurt as much as that poignant cry - the first to Fall, the first to know pain, the first to know fear: the first to know loneliness and cold[return to text]

5 this was, in fact, the first cross species friendship and directly relates to Aziraphale’s love for human foods, because his and Eve’s longest conversations had often occurred over a nice cup of tea with a plate of artfully arranged fruits and breads that a minor mistake regarding sugar while baking later turned into cakes and biscuits.[return to text]

6 Michael had in fact seen and had agreed with Lucifer’s ranting, but before she could speak out in support of Lucifer’s speech, God had already refuted the Morningstar’s complaint, too enraptured by Her latest Creation; and so Michael had said nothing, ever the soldier, and watched as Lucifer was Cast out. On her worst days, Michael wishes that she’d spoken up sooner, had risen her voice in support of Lucifer, because, like Lucifer, Michael saw the Creation of Man to be the Reason for the Schism of Heaven and Hell; not because of Lucifer’s argument with God that had followed. It had been so long ago, even for Michael, and memories are fleeting at best, rewritten with each telling and who can say what is real anymore?[return to text]

7 define: awesome, [adj]: extremely impressive or daunting; inspiring awe[return to text]

  
8 Crowley had watched it all unfold there in Eden as he had during the Schism of Heave, and more than once he felt God’s Eye upon his well hidden, trembling form; and Crowley would later wonder if what happened in Eden was not always meant to occur: for had this not happened before with Lucifer and the Six Hundred? Had Crowley not seen this song and verse play out before in Heaven? Had Crowley not fallen himself, as humans had? And Crowley wondered what it all meant: for if God expected this, but did not do anything to prevent it from happening, did that not mean it was predestined? After all, was She not Omniscient and all-knowing? It was, as the Angel would later tell him, entirely ineffable.[return to text]

9 Once upon a time, Crowley-who-had-once-been-Crawly would think to himself one night in his 21st century apartment in London, there had been a lot of “or’s” involved with their existence: you had to be Good OR Evil; Angel OR Demon; Human OR Ethereal (though Crowley maintained that Demon’s were, in fact, occult). There hadn’t been a lot of grey space back then. Now, though, there was too much grey space and not a whole lot of “or’s” left. Funny, how these things worked out. [return to text]

  
10 this was of course ridiculous. Time has no meaning and was even less impressed at a tiny bunch of mud ape’s attempts at understanding it; let alone the frankly ridiculous notion that God, She who was younger and smaller than even He, could have any sway over His progress. Time only ever had Meaning in Himself, His existence was purely in Inevitability; Life and Death were his Children, fleeting and ephemeral though they were.[return to text]

11 well, one of them, technically all those both Divine and not were Gods children[return to text]

12 there had once been a time where time had been split into Before Aziraphale and After Aziraphale, but Crowley preferred not to think of the Former, and the latter was everyday now and so he needed a new yardstick with which to measure.[return to text]

13 not that they ever would; the Schism had left an indelible mark on both Heaven and Hell, with both sides toeing that invisible line of God’s commandments with close adherence[return to text]

  
14 had Crowley been a different sort of person, he might not have been envious of the leeway that Aziraphale is granted by those with more power than he; but he isn’t, and so Crowley bites it back and it tastes bitter and dark and familiar on the back of his forked tongue. [return to text]

15 Crowley, in his quieter moments when he’s not required to participate because Aziraphale is nattering on about this that and the other, sometimes watches the Angel with eyes forever hidden behind dark lensed sunglasses; Aziraphale might believe that Crowley had picked up the habit of wearing glasses because of human fear and their tendency to burn-at-the-stake-first and ask questions later, but in truth, it was because Crowley could never pretend to not stare at the Angel when Aziraphale was with him. Crowley often experienced bitterness at his situation, but could never, not once, pretend that he preferred it this way; Crowley could handle whatever it was that Heaven or Hell threw at him, but he wished to protect Aziraphale, wished that he remained as he was, here on earth, with his books, his little delicacies, his friends that came and went: Crowley just had his plants, his bentley, and Aziraphale, and Crowley knew that Aziraphale wasn’t really his, that the Angel was just a loan. On his better days, Crowley pretended he was fine with this fact.[return to text]

16 and that included the entire sequence of events that led to and beyond Sodom and Gomorrah; Crowley still dreams of the screaming and the sound of sand and salt crumbling beneath the heavy beat of Angel wings. [return to text]

  
17 Crowley thinks himself very restrained to not scold the Angel for ruining his strict regimen with his plants; but then, the Angel will leave and everything will continue as it was, Crowley sleeping for too long, yelling at his plants, driving his bentl- a car that he’ll buy purely so he can drive at ridiculous speeds in and around London and visiting a bookshop that will need to be rebuilt and an Angel that spends far too much time reading books he’ll never sell and drinking tea he doesn’t need.[return to text]


End file.
